


a rage whose heat nothing can allay

by atheneglaukopis



Category: RWBY
Genre: Gen, plus some ozglyn at the end, this is basically an 11k-word love letter to glynda/rage the one ship to rule them all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-16 22:50:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9292985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atheneglaukopis/pseuds/atheneglaukopis
Summary: 5+1 fic: five times glynda cleans up other people’s messes and one time she doesn’tmostly humorous, with a teaspoon of drama thrown in for good measure, but definitely not meant to be taken too seriously. dedicated to our beloved, eternally furious hbic





	1. Ruby Rose

**Author's Note:**

> this is a collection of vignettes depicting extended scenes told from various perspectives, with ⅔ of events and some dialogue borrowed directly from the corresponding episodes of the show. canon-compliant for volumes one through three, with the exception of a few smudged details and minor timeline changes required to make things floooooow. title [slightly doctored] from shakespeare’s king john (3.1.350-51)
> 
> “But there was one who constantly guarded the peace and happiness of the Land of Oz and this was the Official Sorceress of the Kingdom, […] the most complete mistress of magic who has ever existed […] Glinda the Good.”  
> – L. Frank Baum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no better place to start than at the very beginning. :) this first chapter gives a glimpse into the aftermath of ruby's nighttime scuffle with roman, et al. in 1x01 "ruby rose" 
> 
> enjoy!  
> \- R

**1.) From Dust Till Dawn**

It’s been two hours since the Huntress—Glynda Goodwitch, Professor of Aurology and Combat Strategy at Beacon Academy, a mouthful of a title she’d revealed earlier on the rooftop—had intervened, saving her life just in the nick of time, and Ruby cannot stop fidgeting.

That might be due to the unpleasant wrought-iron chair she’d been ordered into over an hour ago, or it could very well be the leftover adrenaline from her encounter with the ruthless band of Dust thieves, still roiling her stomach like a ship tossed about in a hurricane. Closer to the truth is that Ruby can’t sit still for more than ten minutes at a time on a normal, uneventful day, anyway, and this evening has most certainly been anything but normal. However, the fact that she has been on the receiving end of several sideways glances from Professor Goodwitch during the last twenty minutes alone implies that Ruby is not doing quite as good a job at hiding her restlessness as she’d initially thought.

She swings her legs over the patio floor, soles of her boots brushing against the pavement, and readjusts her position again.

“Ugggggghhhhh,” she groans to the cool night air, lying one arm flat on the matching table and supporting her chin with the palm of her other hand. “This is taking forever.”

After the thieves’ airship had vanished in the darkness and Ruby’s request for an autograph had been flatly denied with nothing more than a piercing glare, the professor had introduced herself with brusque professionalism, asked Ruby for her name, and promptly sent her to stand off to the side. Ruby had watched in giddy fascination as Professor Gooodwitch had completely repaired the dent in the roof—the dispersed fragments rising with a straightforward wave of her crop and reassembling themselves seamlessly in place without any sign that the building had been ruined at all.

The professor had then directed Ruby toward the ladder with another pointed look when she’d attempted to take a leap off the roof (“ _No need to further endanger yourself and others when there is a perfectly good ladder available, Miss Rose_ ”), and they’d descended rung by rung in a dense silence that teetered on the edge of oppressive, broken only by the quickly approaching wail of police sirens and the soft puffing sounds of their breathing.

They’d reached the street just as the first officers were stepping out of their cars, and before Ruby could utter another word, the professor had gone to address them, the tips of her cape flicking out in her wake. Ruby had stood unobtrusively on the sidewalk, shifting her weight from side to side awkwardly, watching as Professor Goodwitch had spoken terse words to a burly man with a drooping moustache who must be the officer in charge. He’d gazed over the professor’s shoulder briefly to evaluate Ruby, and she’d offered a strained smile and half-hearted wave, to which he’d responded with narrowed eyes and an even droopier frown. Ruby had stiffened, grin waning, as her arm had dropped limply to her side.

_Okay, so that’s the tone they’re going for. Got it._

The officer had rejoined his subordinates at the threshold of the shop, where they were marking the locations of scattered Dust crystals and taking photographs of the broken window from inside and out. The still-stunned shopkeeper had stood out of the way, fixing forlorn eyes on his dilapidated storefront. Ruby had watched him from her place across the street, gut clenching in a mix of sympathy and guilt.

Naturally, the police had questioned the poor shop owner first. Ruby had sat noiselessly on the curb, unsure of what else to do, and struggled to eavesdrop on their muttered conversation. She had nonchalantly checked the barrel of her weapon’s rifle as she listened, painfully aware of how the officers standing guard at the shop’s door had kept looking at her with half-patronizing grins. Professor Goodwitch had stood a couple yards down the sidewalk, monitoring Ruby out of the corner of her eye and typing angrily on her scroll with one hand, hitting the digital keys with a force that plainly exhibited her absolute displeasure. She’d not spoken, and Ruby had found, for once in her life, that she could not fill the uncomfortable void, heavy like the all-encompassing hush that follows on the heels of a blizzard.

She’d just sighed, giving up on overhearing any information from the officers, and moped soundlessly with Crescent Rose’s familiar weight settled on her lap.

Three quarters of an hour later, after finishing with the dazed and pallid shop owner, they’d turned to Ruby, shepherding her over to the café across the street from the shop where they’d sat her down on the darkened patio to take her statement. Professor Goodwitch had remained nearby—not too close to be hovering, but not far enough away to be out of earshot—as Ruby retold the sequence of events that had led from her relaxed night of magazine shopping to the escape of the red-haired thief and his mysterious accomplice in the airship. She had perhaps become a bit overly excited, from equal parts nerves and the thrill of the tale, and the officers had stared down at her and Crescent Rose with an obvious skepticism that Ruby did not appreciate. She’d been almost positive that the professor had cracked the tiniest of reassuring smiles then, as fleeting as sunshine peeking through storm clouds, though it was difficult to tell with the play of shadows on her face in the dim lighting of the patio.

Ruby had ended her account with more confidence than she’d started with—Professor Goodwitch’s presence had been strangely soothing during the interview, stalwart and yet still somehow warm—and Ruby had chosen to believe that the professor was on her side.

The comforting atmosphere had swiftly diminished as the officers completed their hurried note-taking, however, and any trace of that covert smile had completely fled, having been overtaken by her usual stony, unreadable exterior. Professor Goodwitch had thanked the officers, abruptly shaking each of their extended hands, and turned on her heel back toward the Dust shop without another word.

She had stopped only once, glancing over her shoulder to give Ruby a long, penetrating look, tinged with something that could have been interpreted as reluctant approval were it not for the inscrutable nature of those emerald eyes, before leaving her to sit by herself at the table with a curt nod and a dour “ _stay here, Miss Rose_.”

Ruby’s been sitting there ever since, her earlier excitement long ago replaced by boredom and unbearable curiosity as she watches the professor discuss the incident further with a gaunt, ashen-faced officer. Her arms are folded irately over her chest, a steely glint in her eye, and a scowl pulls at her lips.

 _He looks nervous_ , Ruby thinks, and she instantly feels a pang of compassion—she’s known the professor for a mere handful of hours and already she can tell that she’s not someone to cross. She imagines that Professor Goodwitch must handle her students with the same no-nonsense attitude with which she’s been conducting herself all evening. The thought of boisterous, carefree Yang in the professor’s class makes Ruby snort loudly, and she claps a hand over her mouth to prevent herself from outright giggling. She is going to look forward to Yang’s letters this semester.

Suddenly, Ruby’s good humor wilts, her shoulders sagging and silver eyes downcast. Assuming Yang remembers to write her at Signal, that is.

She takes a moment to collect her spiraling emotions, reminding herself that Yang hasn’t left for school yet and they still have more time together— _Beacon’s not that far from Signal, right?_ —and when Ruby next raises her head, most of the police are inside the Dust shop, save for two officers flanking the door like statues, unmoving and silent. Professor Goodwitch stands alone beneath a lamppost, bathed in its pale yellow light, staring pensively at the roof where they’d fought the thieves. Her brows are pulled tight together, creases forming at the corners of her eyes like a raven’s claw, and Ruby notices that the fingers of the professor’s right hand keep twitching toward the crop now sheathed in her boot. She muses on whether Professor Goodwitch is replaying the skirmish in her head or if she senses some new threat lurking in the dark.

A chill runs down Ruby’s spine and she trembles, wondering if part of being a Huntress means that you are _always_ sensing threats in the dark, wary of every shadow, restless and watchful, never certain from where your enemy may strike next.

It sounds exhausting.

But Ruby is not quite so naïve as that—this is the life she chose and to which she has dedicated years of diligent training, after all. Her posture straightens, hard as diamonds, and she nods resolutely to the open air. The life of a Huntress is a burden she would be willing to bear, she knows, should she ever be honored with the chance to bear it.

The professor must feel Ruby’s eyes on her, because her gaze shifts from the roof to the patio where Ruby still sits, finally quiet and motionless. The worry lines etched in Professor Goodwitch’s face smooth and vanish, an echo of that prior warmth illuminating the depths of her eyes, like pale spring light through new leaves. Ruby tentatively smiles back; she has a feeling that deep down—deep, _deep_ down—underneath all that intimidating competence lies a teacher who simply wants nothing more than to help her students thrive in whatever ways she is able.

A ping sounds from Professor Goodwitch’s scroll, breaking the moment, and Ruby watches her bright eyes scan back and forth across the message before narrowing, her tightly pressed lips turning down in an exasperated frown. She snaps the scroll shut and heaves a profound, long-suffering sigh.

“Come along, Miss Rose.”

Ruby rises slowly from her chair, confused. “Where are we going?”

“If it were up to me,” the professor grumbles, “you’d be sent home immediately, with a pat on the back and a slap on the wrist.” She hesitates, meeting Ruby’s eyes severely over her glasses. “That decision is not up to me, however, and therefore we need to go to the Vale Police Headquarters.”

Ruby’s brows furrow slightly and she cocks her head to one side. “What? Why? I already told them what happened,” she says, gesturing to the cluster of police cars still barricading the street in front of the shop. Her voice catches nervously. “Is everything okay?”

“Disregarding your... less than grave demeanor, Miss Rose, your statement was acceptable. Nevertheless,” she sighs heavily again, “it seems there is someone else who would like to speak with you.”

“Oh.” Ruby exhales the breath she had not realized she’d been holding. “Who?”

The professor’s sharp edges soften a minuscule amount once more in spite of the impatience evident in her expression and the staccato tapping of her toe against the pavement.

“You’ll see, soon enough,” she replies, unhelpfully. “Follow me.”

Professor Goodwitch takes off at a breakneck pace, striding down the street with an elegance by which Ruby is entirely unsurprised. She jogs a bit to catch up, using her Semblance in slight, undetectable pulses just to keep in step with her, and says nothing as her thoughts churn into a dizzying maelstrom.

 _What if it’s dad?_ she worries. _Or Uncle Qrow? Or the Headmistress at Signal??_ Ruby swallows the rising lump of dread in her throat and tries to ignore the flock of Nevermore that has suddenly taken flight in her belly. She could be in a whole world of trouble.

She visibly shakes off the anxiety and dismisses those nebulous fears before they can solidify, patting Crescent Rose lovingly and standing up a little straighter. She did the right thing. She’s fine.

And no matter what happens now, Ruby thinks, a little more spring to her step and a grin unfurling across her flushed face, this will definitely be a night to remember.


	2. Pyrrha Nikos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter takes place sometime after 1x14 "forever fall part 2," but before the end of volume one
> 
> thank you all for reading! I hope you enjoy :)  
> \- R

**2.) The Armory**  

Beacon’s locker room is an unmitigated disaster.

Jaune claims it was an accident, blue eyes big and pleading, but Pyrrha can hear the raucous laughter of Cardin Winchester and the rest of Team CRDL resounding from the corridor just outside the hall, and the mental leap is not a difficult one to make. They may have given up on tormenting Jaune specifically since the field trip to Forever Fall, but that hasn’t stopped them from causing general mayhem whenever the chance presents itself.

This time it seems Cardin and his cronies had acquired Jaune’s copy of the codes to Team JNPR’s rocket-propelled lockers and set them off. Normally this wouldn’t be a problem, of course—the lockers launch through large mechanical apertures in the roof before altering their trajectory to reach their programmed destinations—but Team CRDL had clearly changed the coordinates, causing each of their four lockers to shoot into the air, only to come crashing down through the roof of the armory again, leaving gaping holes in the ceiling and colossal gashes where they had scraped along the floor.

Ren’s locker had done the least amount of damage, careening into Team RWBY’s and merely knocking them over, while Nora’s had become firmly lodged halfway through a support pillar of solid grey limestone. Jaune’s is upside down against the wall, its rockets sputtering embers perilously close to an enormous navy banner sporting the Beacon insignia, and Pyrrha’s own is crunched against the far wall, littered with glass from the shattered window and a heap of broken ceramic tiles.

Saying the armory resembles a war zone would be putting it mildly.

Pyrrha takes in the scene again and shakes her head with a sigh. This is far beyond her skill to fix.

“Ren,” she calls, and a flash of pink and green pokes up from behind a pile of debris. “We are going to need some… professional help with this.”

He nods once, understanding her train of thought as he always does, and vaults over the wreckage, patting Jaune empathetically on the shoulder before exiting the hall to find Professor Goodwitch.

Pyrrha glances at Nora, who is busily picking up the decorative axes and spears that had fallen from their places on the walls, and catches her attention with a quick wave. She gestures toward Jaune, seated on a miraculously intact bench, head cradled despondently in his hands, and Nora’s habitual cheer dwindles for a moment—his newfound confidence had just begun to take root, and Pyrrha & Nora both worry that losing the codes will be yet another blow to his self-esteem.

Nora lays the bundle of weapons on the rubble Ren had just vacated and goes to their team leader, perking up when he wearily meets her eyes. She takes him by the arm with surprising gentleness.

“C’mon, Jaune!” she says jovially, all but dragging him across the room. “I need a hand carrying these.”

He looks beseechingly back at Pyrrha, but she grants him only a small, encouraging smile; he needs to focus on something other than his misplaced guilt, and Pyrrha needs to focus on clearing away as much of the mess as she can before Professor Goodwitch arrives.

She lightly kicks at pieces of rock and splintered wood with the toe of her boot and looks instead to the lockers themselves. The wood and stone are lost to her, but the metal she can certainly work with.

She walks over to where Ren’s locker had barreled into Weiss’, which had toppled into Yang’s, and so on like dominoes, and brushes her palm against the frosty steel as she passes. It almost hums beneath her touch, the metal vibrating in frequency with her Semblance, and the familiarity soothes her amid the destruction.

She braces herself, bending her knees and closing her eyes, feeling the pull of the steel on the floor around her, and as she slowly raises an arm, she can sense the closest locker rising, as well. It’s not as heavy as she had been expecting, and the locker continues to rise off the ground, easy as breathing; as connected to her as the iron that flows through her veins.

She properly orients the locker in midair, strengthening her mental hold as she straightens out the numerous shallow dents in the metal, reshaping the steel so it is smooth and gleaming like new. Finished, Pyrrha sets it down in its proper place against the wall with immense care and begins on the next locker, repeating the process with the meticulousness she has dedicated her life to honing.

It is a simple, repetitive chore, and after she replaces the last of Team RWBY’s lockers, she allows her mind to wander. Her locker, Jaune’s, and Ren’s will be equally simple, but Nora’s locker, she acknowledges, is a much trickier task, as removing it from the pillar may make the unstable limestone crumble completely. It will take dexterity and painstaking control—the locker she could wriggle out with time, but without something to hold up the stone, further collapse is not a risk Pyrrha is willing to take in the few minutes she has left.

She’ll have to leave that one to the professor.

She reaches out with her Semblance for Ren’s locker and walks it back toward what used to be the Team JNPR block, flattening the metal as she did before, and settles it with a clang on the ground. Restoring her own locker is a bit harder; the metal had compressed itself when it smashed into the wall like the bellows on an accordion, and accurately stretching it back out again requires Pyrrha to concentrate on the composition of the material with a depth she rarely employs in combat.

Her eyelids snap shut and she swallows. Tapping into her Semblance so intricately labors her breathing, dries her mouth, and causes the space behind her eyes to ache. Even after all this time, such assiduous concentration is draining in a way she can’t quite explain.

Pyrrha remembers when she was younger, before she embarked on her training in earnest, and how she could feel the metals around her at all times: iron, nickel, cobalt, singing to her from their hiding places beneath the earth. She had learned to tune out the constant thrum of their cacophony, but she can still recall the headaches she used to get, the sheer pain of feeling _so much_ every moment of every day.

These faint twinges are all that remain of that pain, though the memory makes Pyrrha shiver despite the armory’s warmth, and she pauses in her effort, reflexively tightening the grip of her Aura on the locker.

 _The agony of sensory overload no longer affects you_ , she reminds herself, breathing calmly through her nose. _Look at how far you have come. Look at what you have surpassed._ She fills her mind with the hope and faith that someday she will overcome it altogether, listening to the harmonious symphony of the metal instead of the echoing discord that had characterized her early childhood.

Pyrrha relaxes, and upon opening her eyes, the locker is in superb condition, unbent and unbroken, shining like polished silver in the bright light of the hall. She drops it beside Ren’s, another peal ringing throughout the chamber, and rubs her temples gingerly with her fingertips.

She pushes through the thin mental fog, just beginning to gather her wits to start on Jaune’s locker, when the still-reverberating clang is answered by the armory’s double doors being thrown open as if by the powerful gusts of a raging tempest. Pyrrha hears a soft, nervous whimper from the opposite side of the hall where Jaune slumps beside Nora, and she turns toward the entrance as Professor Goodwitch strides in, Ren following closely behind.

Professor Goodwitch doesn’t say a word—just assesses the armory from one end to the other with her usual impenetrable façade—but Pyrrha can see the professor’s throat tighten slightly, and observes how her fingers curl into loose fists at her sides.

Survey complete, she retrieves her crop from her boot and waves it once through the air with authoritative flair. Pieces of stone immediately rise from their resting places on the floor and hurtle toward the ceiling, filling the holes with impeccable precision under the professor’s thorough ministrations.

Watching the debris soar throughout the room, Pyrrha wonders if the world sings to the professor in the same way metal sings to her; if _everything_ calls out to Professor Goodwitch with an irresistible power that resonates in her very bones, and obeys her every whim. She tries to imagine how that would feel and the thought makes her eyes widen and breath catch in the back of her throat.

Ren moves to stand with Pyrrha and nods to her in reassurance, snapping her out of her daze, and she offers him an appreciative smile in return. Nora and Jaune promptly join them, Pyrrha seeking out Jaune’s hand and giving it a comforting squeeze, as twisted scraps of metal and wood continue to rearrange themselves before their eyes into the lines of benches that had accompanied the armory’s lockers.

At last the whirlwind of wreckage ceases and, satisfied that the benches, floor, and ceiling are fixed to her lofty standards, Professor Goodwitch approaches the ruined pillar, studying the protruding angle of Nora’s locker still trapped within the stone. She circles it twice, keen eyes absorbing each crack and possible hazard, and then shifts her attention to the tense, dusty, and sweat-streaked faces of her students.

“I expect the four of you to explain what occurred here at a later time,” she says, dulcet voice almost thunderous in the utter silence of the hall. “For now you are to return to your dormitory and stay out of trouble. Is that clear?”

They all open their mouths to reply, but the rockets on Jaune’s upside-down locker choose that moment to erupt, shooting jets of azure fire into the air. The Beacon banner inevitably bursts into flames and Pyrrha winces, squeezing Jaune’s hand again as he hangs his head in misery.

Professor Goodwitch’s blazing emerald eyes narrow. She points her crop at the door.

“Out,” she commands, clenching her jaw. “Now.”

They comply with utmost haste; Jaune all but sprints out of the hall, fleeing before anything else can spontaneously combust, Nora and Ren quick on his tail.

“Miss Nikos.”

She speaks just as Pyrrha clasps the gilded door handle, and she takes a deep, fortifying breath before turning to respond.

“Yes, Professor?”

“You did an excellent job here,” she says, cool, but sincere, gesturing to the neat rows of burnished lockers. “Your skills in metalwork are as impressive as your prowess in combat.”

Pyrrha blinks rapidly in surprise, managing to maintain her composure, and deflects the praise.

“Thank you, Professor, but it was no trouble.”

“I know good repair work when I see it,” Professor Goodwitch continues, a hint of a smile curling the corner of her mouth. “You have a deft hand.”

Pyrrha inclines her head in gratitude, clasping her hands over her stomach. “Thank you, Professor.” At Professor Goodwitch’s returning nod, she turns to leave, but again makes it only as far as the door.

“Oh, and Miss Nikos?”

Pyrrha glances over her shoulder. “Yes, Professor?” She feels increasingly like one of her grandmother’s broken records, skipping endlessly on the same tinny words.

“Do make sure that Mr. Arc keeps close watch on your team’s new locker codes.” Her eyes seem to sparkle behind her spectacles, though Pyrrha thinks it may just be the shifting colors of the flames reflecting in the glass. “We wouldn’t want another team to get ahold of them, now, would we?”

Pyrrha almost forgets her deeply-ingrained sense of etiquette, a hysterical laugh bubbling up from her swiftly evaporating anxiety, and she purses her lips to prevent it from escaping. She shakes her head and settles for breathing it out on a shaky sigh; the fact that somehow the professor knows the truth and Jaune will not face further reprimand fills her with relief, a light, airy feeling that spreads from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. She does not try to contain the beaming, genuine grin that lights up her face, reaching her vivid green eyes.

“Of course, Professor.”

The acrid smell of burning cloth ends the conversation, smoke wafting above their heads in delicate furls, and the professor abandons her worthy effort of ignoring the smoldering banner and the pile of ashes accruing steadily on the floor beneath it.

Pyrrha inches backward to the doors, watching as Professor Goodwitch fires a blast of ice at the flames, dousing them instantly with a hiss. The banner has suffered irreparable damage, but the locker she fixes effortlessly—with another flick of her crop, it rejoins its fellows in the newly reformed JNPR section, metal mending itself with a speed that boggles Pyrrha’s mind.

She withdraws from the armory, hearing the screech of stone against metal as Professor Goodwitch begins to free Nora’s locker from its prison. The sound becomes muffled by the thick hardwood door closing in her wake with a breathy snick, and she turns to the left, heading in the direction of her dormitory.

Watching the professor work has emphasized just how much she still has to learn. It’s daunting and invigorating all at once, and Pyrrha’s skin tingles with the electric anticipation of a new challenge.

She vows to herself that she will amplify her efforts individually and alongside her friends, implementing an enhanced training regimen as soon as possible. It will be grueling, she knows, and she is bound to meet some resistance on the way, but Pyrrha Nikos, Champion of Mistral, never balks in the face of hard work.

She can’t wait to begin.

Pyrrha exits the building that houses the armory, and once outdoors, she inhales the brisk afternoon air in contentment. She navigates the interlacing web of paths that crisscrosses the academy’s sun-drenched campus with ease, and soon her teammates come into view, waiting for her patiently at the foot of the stairs leading to the entrance of their dormitory. Jaune appears to be holding himself together laudably, though she can detect the near-frantic worry in his eyes. Nora and Ren stand on either side of Jaune, lending him strength, sturdy as the ancient trees of the groves surrounding Beacon like sentinels robed in living jade.

“Pyrrha?” Jaune’s voice is steady, unlike his hands fretting with the buttons on his jacket. He gulps. “Did the professor—”

“Everything is alright, Jaune,” she swears, cutting off his words before he can start to panic. She smiles tenderly to assuage his fears, and takes his gloved hands in hers. “I promise.”

He releases a shuddering breath, Nora punching him playfully on the shoulder while Ren nods his stoic approval, and Pyrrha stands before her JNPR teammates—her comrades in arms, partners, cherished friends—and she blesses whatever road led her to this place and, most importantly, to these people.

Her brilliant smile grows, and she basks in the warmth of the sun.

“We are going to be just fine.”


	3. Neptune Vasilias

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for your kudos & comments—I appreciate your input, kindness, and support tremendously <3
> 
> here we have 2x01 "best day ever" through the eyes of mr vasilias. enjoy!  
> \- R

**3.) The Dining Hall**

_These people are insane._

A white ceramic plate whizzes past Neptune’s right elbow and shatters instantaneously against the wall behind him. _Certifiably, 100% insane._

This time a baguette narrowly misses Neptune’s head— _was it the Mistrali who threw that? (Wait. Is that_ Pyrrha Nikos??) _Or did it come from the Faunus girl with the bow Sun had prattled on about?_ —and he proceeds to avoid a sandwich and a bottle of mustard, several leeks, and the majority of an absurd quantity of smashed watermelons. It’s a minor miracle that he’s able to summon the bare minimum of necessary grace to dodge them all without slipping on the wet floor, and in the split second of peace that follows the barrage, he heaves a massive sigh of relief.

He looks out the corner of his eye at Sun, and of course his best friend seems to be thoroughly enjoying himself. He’s cheering loudly for Team RWBY, his whoops echoing through the large chamber, and the ever-changing array of exaggerated reactions on his eager face would be hilarious were it not for the fact that Neptune is still in no mood to find any of this funny. Sun’s white shirt is stained in lurid shades of purple and blue and green and he has melon dripping from his hair. Neptune winces at the mere thought of how he must look right now. He’s glad the windows are currently too coated in grime to provide much of a reflection.

It’s a small mercy.

He gets whacked in the thigh with a dish of mashed potatoes and groans miserably—it’s going to take an eternity to clean the food out of his clothes. Despite himself, however, the corners of Neptune’s mouth lift into a grudging grin. Sun’s enthusiasm has always been infectious, and he has to admit that this is by far the most epic food fight he has ever witnessed. What’s more extraordinary, really, is that everyone involved is still in one piece.

Predictably, that doesn’t last long.

As soon as he finishes the thought, the girl with a flowing white hair whose left hand is wrapped securely around the tail fin of a large fish goes flying straight into a pillar of very solid-looking rock before she’s caught in midair by the girl in a red hood. The pillar crumbles to the ground in a rain of dust and boulders, and the Hood Girl holds Swordfish Girl limply in her arms, wailing.

Neptune wonders if he should go for help and is just about to reach for the door when he blinks twice in alarm and falls to his knees on the floor, in just enough time to duck before an entire turkey comes soaring at him from the business end of the cackling, ginger girl’s makeshift melon hammer.

The turkey thumps against the window and slides with an excruciating, somehow slimy whine down the glass to join the rest of the mess on the ground. His stomach follows its descent, and he has a sinking feeling that he should have stayed home today.

 _Yes_ , he thinks, closing his eyes, as yet another can of sticky grape soda erupts and soaks his immaculately styled hair. _I definitely,_ definitely _should not have left my bed this morning._

When he decides it might be sufficiently safe to look again, he sees Swordfish sitting up and rubbing the back of her neck, apparently right as rain, Red Hood patting her gingerly on the shoulder, and the Faunus girl—Blake, he remembers—whipping Hammer Girl into some vending machines with a lengthy link of sausages. The blonde girl is missing, but there’s a broad hole in the ceiling that he’s positive was not there before, and as unbelievable as all of this is, it doesn’t take much to figure out where she’s gone.

Neptune rises sluggishly to his feet again, scratching absently at a streak of dried gravy on his cheek with one hand and picking a lettuce leaf from his shoulder with the other. He warily watches the renowned celebrity Pyrrha Nikos, who has been keenly eyeing the soda cans strewn about the floor, and he recoils, taking a cautious step back. _Not more soda, please for the love of Remnant, no more soda—_

He looks on in slack-jawed dismay as Nikos gestures toward the floor and sends every can in the vicinity spiraling through the air toward Blake—a veritable cyclone of aluminum cans exploding against her head and torso and forcing her up high against the wall, where she eventually plummets in a clattering din of broken plates, peas, and chipped tea cups.

Neptune doesn’t get a chance to move before Red Hood takes off like a bolt of lightning; the sheer force of her velocity splashes the puddle of accumulated soda into Neptune’s face, and through the drops stinging his eyes, he sees an even greater cyclone of rose petals hurling all four members of the opposing team into the cracked far wall of the dining hall. They are battered relentlessly with food, the wall and their bodies tinged with vibrant colors, before they drop collectively to the floor in a scrambled, winded heap.

The Hood Girl stands triumphantly in the center of the room, flashing a thumbs-up toward her avenged teammates, and Neptune repeatedly clenches and unclenches his fists, letting out a deep breath and attempting not to become nauseated by the ubiquitous scents of watermelon, roast turkey, and artificial grape flavoring.

“I love these guys,” says Sun, with only the faintest trace of embarrassment, and Neptune just turns to him and glares, hoping in vain that his most potent glower will adequately convey his discontent.

Neptune’s irritation is nothing to the fury that slams open the doors an instant later with a ferocious bang, and it takes all of his academy training not to leap a mile into the air at the sudden noise.

A black-clad woman—a professor, judging by the rigid, sheepish reactions of the Beacon teams—darts past in a rage, growling low in her throat. She steps directly into the path of a wave of plates and food sent flying by the shock of Hood Girl’s speed, and raises her left arm to shield herself. Instead of the collision Neptune anticipates, however, she releases a shockwave of her own; a pulse of amethyst light emanates from her palm, freezing the oncoming projectiles midair, and with a wide swing of the riding crop in her right hand, she propels them back whence they came.

The stacked tables and benches ascend with them, racing through the vast open area of the hall before plunging into place on the floor, flawlessly aligned and unblemished. Broken tableware, trays, and cutlery are patched back together by invisible hands, while food and liquid and empty soda cans settle in the trash bins in the corners of the room. The hole in the ceiling and cracks on the floor and back wall fill in and flatten, and the giant stone pillar soon stands tall and strong as though it had never been toppled.

Neptune, thunderstruck, feels rather like time is reversing itself.

She guides the final table to the ground with a fierce swish of her crop, and there’s a moment of stifling silence as the stiff-backed professor stares down her errant students. Neptune holds his breath, straightens his shoulders, and braces himself accordingly, expecting a scolding of unholy proportions.

“Children, _please_ ,” she says, calm and collected, pushing up her razor-thin wire glasses. “Do not play with your food.”

Neptune snorts. _Amazing._ He wishes his professors at Haven cracked awful jokes instead of meting out punishment—it would save him a lot of time and energy bailing Sun out of trouble.

He glances at Sun, noticing his friend’s abnormally perfect posture, and he appraises the professor with respect and an impressed shake of his head. Anyone who can get Sun Wukong to temporarily forsake his customary casual slouch must be a formidable person, indeed.

A formidable person who’s either furious beyond further words or just _that_ composed. Neptune can’t really tell.

 _Either way,_ he thinks, _she is taking this remarkably well._

… Until Hammer Girl belches like a cannon in the hush of the hall and Blondie finally crashes through the roof with a deafening shout, creating a new mess of dirt and debris. The professor growls again, shoulders tensing, as her fingers tighten around her crop in a white-knuckled grip.

A silver-haired man with a cane enters then—Neptune recognizes Headmaster Ozpin from the portraits that hang in the gallery at Haven—and saunters inaudibly toward the other professor, halting well within her personal space. He places a reassuring hand on her shoulder and she deflates like a balloon—all the anger leaving her in a long, resigned sigh. The two professors speak to one another in soft, intimate tones, and Neptune does his best to block them out; Sun can say whatever he wants about Neptune’s ability to keep a secret, but he has never been one to eavesdrop.

Well. Not on professors, anyway.

He looks instead to the eight Beacon students, bent over in carefree laughter, brushing themselves off, and complimenting each other on an outstanding performance. They seem happy, Neptune thinks, and genuinely good-natured, and after all he and Sun have been through at Haven together, he can trust that any friend of Sun’s is a friend of his.

Choice made, Neptune nods his approval to Sun.

His life could do with a little bit of chaos, and these Beacon people have it in spades.

He grins. They’re just his kind of crazy.

The two professors leave the dining hall, shoulder to shoulder murmuring to one another, and Neptune follows them out with a jaunty wave to Sun.

Once outside, Neptune looks down on his filthy jacket with scorn. He desperately needs to wash his clothes.

And then he has an introduction to plan.


	4. Cinder Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> takes place during 2x12 "breach"
> 
> thank you all for reading!  
> \- R

**4.) Downtown Vale**

Cinder rolls her eyes as she makes her way through the deserted streets of Vale. Leave it to Roman to throw a wrench into her carefully laid plans.

Forsaking Vale now is not an option, she knows; failure to join forces with the students of Beacon and the other visiting schools to defend the city would only attract unwelcome attention, and at this crucial point in their grand scheme, suspicion is one thing they simply cannot afford.

She progresses toward the crater at the heart of the city, flanked by Emerald and Mercury, and keeps a close eye on the fleet of Atlesian airships hovering in the sunset sky above, distributing android Knights into the battle. The sound of their gunfire rings in her ears as shouting students already on the ground rush to the aid of Team RWBY, and Cinder’s lips turn down in a malevolent frown.

_They are far too meddlesome for their own good,_ Cinder thinks, brows drawn together in snide displeasure. It is abysmally apparent that Roman is incapable of handling the group of fledgling Huntresses, and they will require more rigorous surveillance after this latest incident, lest their incessant interference becomes even more of a thorn in her side. The Vytal Festival is laden with traps, and she is secure in the knowledge that the hotheaded blonde one, in any case, will find herself ensnared exactly where Cinder wants her.

She smirks. Cinder looks forward to the day when Beacon’s student body will be reduced to nothing more than the cowering mass of children they are, insects to be crushed on the soles of her heels.

That day looms nearer than they realize.

Cinder reaches the central square of downtown Vale just as a squad of Knights shoots down an Ursa in a spray of Dust bullets, its hulking frame striking the asphalt at her feet. She nods discretely to Mercury and Emerald—they are more than capable of eliminating a slew of Grimm without her—and walks instead in the opposite direction into the refuge of a murky, secluded alley.

A fire escape climbs the adjacent building like charred vines, and she scales its steps and ladders with feline agility, swift and nimble, the glass of her shoes clinking against the cold iron.

A cluster of chimneys emerging from the rooftop casts long shadows in the twilight, providing a convenient cover of darkness. Cinder prowls toward the edge, cautiously staying in the shade. She goes as far as she can and, hidden from the fleet circling overhead, the vantage point affords her a delightful view of the chaos below.

She watches as Emerald finishes off an Ursa, the disintegrating carcasses of Beowolves littering the street around her. Mercury holds his own against a group of Boarbatusks, ducking and dodging with blinding speed, slaying each one in turn with a deadly kick to its vulnerable underside.

Knights struggle to subdue more Grimm swarming from the cavernous hole in the street, when a rumble shakes the foundations of the neighboring buildings. An Atlesian Paladin bearing the mark of the White Fang rises from the breach, though Cinder can sense that it is not piloted by any of Roman’s incompetent troops—a small dog bounds from its cockpit and charges headfirst into a Beowolf, and she scowls, wondering where the hell it came from.

An incoming airship catches her interest, flying in low from the direction of the academy. Beacon’s Team CFVY leaps from its fuselage, a blur of amber and brown zooming toward the ground, and they stick their landing in the middle of the plaza. They jump into the melee without delay, annihilating Grimm left and right, bony quills flinging to every corner of the square.

Their leader obliterates everything within range; Beowolves, a Death Stalker, and several gigantic Nevermore fall to her merciless gunfire, the black miasma of their dissolving corpses obscuring the plaza like a fog.

A turgid voice booms from the jagged ruins of the street directly underneath Cinder, and she inches closer to edge of the roof, peering over to determine who it is that has appeared below.

Peter Port approaches the immobile Paladin which Bartholomew Oobleck had recently vacated, shouldering his weapon and beckoning to Oobleck as he swipes dirt from his trench coat, but before Cinder can observe the Beacon professors further, around the bend of the road a blast of magenta light fells a horde of Ursai with lethal accuracy.

Cinder feels a memory rise insistently to the surface of her mind; the last time she had seen such an expression of Aura, she’d been trading blows fifty feet above in an airship, but the recognition is like an electric shock racing down her spine. She’s not one to easily forget an opponent, and the Huntress’ signature is unmistakable.

_So,_ she thinks, crossing her arms over her chest. _Ozpin’s Right Hand has arrived at last._

Whatever lingering doubts Cinder may have had dissipate when Goodwitch stalks around the corner, shoulders hunched and hands clenched tightly into fists, and even from this distance, Cinder can see that she is livid. Port and Oobleck blaze a path for her, bombarding a snarling pack of Grimm with balls of flame, and she storms down the street unfazed, tossing Grimm out of her way without so much as a glance.

Goodwitch steadily advances toward the fractured city square, brandishing her crop at the crack in the earth from which the creatures of Grimm still pour forth in profusion. Gargantuan chunks of rock and cement glide toward her as if pulled by magnets, the battered train car receding into the subterranean labyrinth as the street becomes whole again.

Cinder watches in contempt as the breach is sealed, preventing more enemies from infiltrating Vale, and Goodwitch moves on to begin rebuilding other damaged parts of the surrounding area.

The professor is indomitable and tireless, and as much as Cinder loathes those who uphold Ozpin’s treacherous philosophy, it would be most unwise not to respect Goodwitch’s strength, or at the very least, not to underestimate it.

She follows Goodwitch’s route from the rooftop, monitoring her movements as she renews broken businesses and infrastructure and defeats the remaining Grimm, using the stone fragments to her advantage by enveloping them in Aura to repurpose them as missiles.

The strategy reminds Cinder of their encounter on a different rooftop—flashes of violet in the night that had manifested as glyphs summoned for protection and a thunderhead raining ice down upon them in a razor-sharp deluge—and she wonders if there is space for a Dust cartridge somewhere within the crop Goodwitch wields. Her Semblance seems almost too variable to be natural, and suspicions that have long prickled the back of Cinder’s mind return to the forefront.

She entertains the idea for a quarter of a minute before she smirks derisively to herself, suppressing the notion. _I’ve no use for such far-fetched nonsense._

Ozpin is overconfident, certainly, but she does not believe that even he in his infinite arrogance would be so reckless as to hide such a valuable asset in plain sight.

_Or perhaps…_ she narrows her eyes, deliberating. _Hmm._ Cinder stares at the towering silhouette of Beacon Academy perched upon its cliff on the horizon, the gleaming green turret at its center a bastion of Ozpin’s lies and deceit. Her smirk widens.

_Hiding in plain sight, indeed._

She’ll have to examine that train of thought later.

Goodwitch halts below, having repaired all she can for the time being, and Cinder traces her return to the central square where the students and other professors have gathered in a congratulatory ring. She stands on the outside looking in, alone and aloof; attention ever shifting from corner to corner of the plaza, she maintains constant vigilance, unwilling even now to lower her defenses.

A droning Atlesian airship rests in the square, and Mercury and Emerald lead a loudly protesting Roman to its cargo hold, pushing him forward step by step. They transfer custody to a pair of android Knights standing guard at the entrance before leaving Roman to his fate, joining the group and making nice with Ruby Rose, as venomous snakes conceal themselves in grass.

Cinder glares down at the Beacon students from her post high above them, reveling in the success of the day, despite the unforeseen change in plans.

She retreats to the far end of the rooftop, waiting for Emerald and Mercury to join her as previously agreed, and shifts her gaze back to the academy, bright in the fading light of dusk.

Her adversary will be contemplating the city from the luminous summit of his office, she knows; Ozpin in his lofty stronghold, looking down on his puppets, tugging their strings taught around his fingers. _Fool._

The triumphant laughter of the students below jars Cinder from her thoughts and her previous smirk returns.

“Let them believe the battle is won,” she taunts, right eye flaring with stolen power.

“The war is just beginning.”


	5. Qrow Branwen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, folks! this chapter deals with some of the events from 3x03 "it's brawl in the family"
> 
> thanks again for reading!! <3  
> \- R

**5.) Beacon's Courtyard**

Qrow is going to relish wiping that insufferably self-righteous look from Winter Schnee’s face.

They’ve thoroughly torn up Beacon’s courtyard, and while it is abundantly clear what that will mean for him later, Qrow can’t bring himself to care at the moment. Not while Schnee continues to sneer at him with judgmental pale blue eyes.

She thrusts her sabre into the ground, a rotating, white glyph unique to those of Schnee ancestry appearing beneath her feet. A shower of cerulean snowflakes erupts from the glyph, and she summons a shimmering flock of miniature Nevermore, translucent echoes of Schnee's defeated foes, awakening again to fight on her behalf. They circle Schnee before darting maliciously toward Qrow, and he locks his stance in preparation for the attack.

He shelters his eyes from the Grimm’s sharp talons and, swinging his sword to repel their unrelenting onslaught, safeguards himself as the Nevermore swirl like a vortex around him.

Qrow sees an opening and hews through the barrier of Grimm, sending a blast of energy tearing across the destroyed courtyard. The slash disrupts Schnee’s glyph and severs her connection to the summons, and she takes a step back, glowering.

The orange light of the setting sun glints off the blades of Schnee’s swords as she generates another glyph at her back, throwing down the proverbial gauntlet.

Surrendering to temptation, Qrow accepts the challenge.

The clockwork dial on his greatsword ticks and whirs—he is seconds away from unleashing his scythe, the desire to show Winter Schnee exactly what he’s capable of overwhelming in its intensity—but a small group hastily approaching the fray catches Qrow’s scarlet gaze, and the corners of his mouth quirk upward into a minuscule smile.

He deactivates his weapon, affixing it to the loop at the small of his back, and beckons her forward with a caustic, cocky grin. _Come and get me, Ice Queen._

Provoking her proves too easy. She rushes him full speed, wrath overtaking reason and her strict military training, and the tip of her blade is inches from piercing his throat when Ironwood’s commanding voice halts Schnee’s momentum in an instant.

“Schnee!”

The look of utter devastation in her frantically shifting eyes vanishes almost as soon as it appears, but as far as Qrow’s concerned, it is more than worth the effort of the past few minutes.

Her senses come back to her abruptly as she makes an about-face toward the general.

“General Ironwood, sir!”

In typical military fashion, James does not mince words. “What in the world do you think you’re doing?”

“He started the altercation, sir,” Schnee objects.

Qrow peers over her shoulder, arms folded casually behind his head.

“That’s actually not true,” he denies, nodding toward Schnee. “She attacked first.”

James gives her a fearsome look that would vaporize a weaker officer, and Qrow concedes to himself that Winter Schnee has a backbone of steel. “Is that right?”

She grimaces and avoids the general’s flinty eyes, glancing shamefaced at her boots, as James scans the chattering crowd.

He turns to Qrow.

“And you,” he begins. Qrow points a finger at himself, feigning innocence. The general walks closer and lowers his voice to a near whisper. “What are you doing _here_?”

Qrow grins sarcastically. “I could be asking you the same thing.”

James falters. “I—”

“Now, now, everyone,” Ozpin interrupts, right on time as usual, and Qrow takes that as his cue to stop listening. He vaguely hears Ozpin’s pathetic attempt at a joke and Glynda shouting at the crowd to disperse, and when he next comes back to himself, James and his robot patrol are marching Winter Schnee toward the academy and Qrow has an armful of his niece.

“Ahhh!! It’s so good to see you! Did you miss me? Did you miss me?!” Ruby asks, ear-splitting in volume.

He gives her a blank stare before a genuine smile crosses his face. “Nope,” he says, ruffling her hair.

“Qrow!” The headmaster’s voice startles them both, and Ruby falls from his arm with a grunt. “A word, please,” requests Ozpin, as Glynda mends the huge pit in the flagstones of the courtyard, seething in silence.

“I think I’m in trouble,” he says, under his breath.

Ruby cheekily agrees.

She bounces off toward the younger Schnee when the violent click of heels against pavement announces Glynda’s approach. Qrow can’t help but square his shoulders for half a moment, the fine hairs on the nape of his neck standing on end. Even after years of working with her, the icy force of Glynda Goodwitch’s anger still manages to freeze his blood.

And oh, is she angry.

More so than usual, at any rate. Not that any but those closest to her would be able to tell the difference.

The chill passes almost as soon as it had arisen, and Qrow rolls his right shoulder, relaxing his posture. Strange, he thinks, that it’s when she is at her most enraged that he can perceive the faintest glimmer of what Oz must see in her; Glynda truly is radiant when she’s mentally maiming someone.

It probably shouldn’t be so attractive when that person is him.

He’s shaken out of his thoughts by the uncanny feeling of eyes boring into his forehead, and he refocuses his gaze to see Glynda glaring daggers directly at him, bestowing upon him the gift of one of her characteristic scathing Looks. Qrow admires her ability to inject such palpable disdain into those ridiculously green eyes of hers—must be a useful skill when she needs to stop Grimm and students alike in their tracks.

He shrugs, offering her an apathetic salute coupled with a sardonic smirk, and her only response is to glare harder, lips pressed firmly into a thin line. Glynda extends her crop, and for a split second Qrow thinks she may cast him straight off the cliffside, but the nearby pieces of the lamppost he’d sliced cleanly in two merely rise and rearrange themselves together until the post is as good as new.

Her narrowed, unblinking stare never strays from Qrow’s face.

It would be unnerving if he were sober. Thankfully that’s rarely the case.

He endures her scrutiny with his standard mocking grin, meeting her fiery eyes unflinchingly, and finally Qrow waves a hand at the restored pathway and lamppost.

“How many times have you had to fix this courtyard during your tenure here?” he asks. “A dozen? More?” He tilts his head forward, bowing in exaggerated reverence. “You’re a gentlewoman and a scholar, Glynda.”

 She doesn’t miss a beat, voice dripping with vitriol.

“You’re an obscene, disgraceful drunk, Qrow. A real paragon of virtue.”

He dramatically slaps a hand over his heart. “And people think you have no sense of humor.”

She crosses her arms, raising a perfectly sculpted brow. “I don’t.”

“That’s quite enough,” intervenes Ozpin, cane tapping evenly against the bricks. “My office, please.” He eyes Qrow over the rims of his dark glasses. “Now.”

Glynda turns on her heel, still fuming, and Qrow yields at Ozpin’s serious expression and thinly veiled fatigue.

He cannot remember a time when Ozpin has ever looked so exhausted.

It’s more perturbing than Qrow is ready to admit.

He assumes a fleet-footed pace toward the exquisitely carved oak doors that lead to Beacon’s grand entrance hall, but soon comes to a standstill to address Glynda, who has paused by the ornamental fountain, gazing with unseeing, apprehensive eyes at the Hunters adorning the peak of the statue at its center.

Her back is stiff, the pressure she and Qrow both feel arching her neck downward in a surprising display of vulnerability, and the circles that have crept beneath her eyes over the years are darker than when he last saw her. _She looks almost as tired as Ozpin_ , he realizes. Her constant ire hides it well.

“You are the most infuriating man I know, Qrow,” she declares, before he can open his mouth to speak. Glynda does not face him as she lays her hands on the edge of the fountain, fingertips not quite touching the placid water, but Qrow can hear the dry wit lacing her tone and knows that this incident, at least, has been forgiven.

He chuckles. “Even more infuriating than Jimmy? That’s one hell of an honor, Glynda. I’m touched.”

They say nothing for a long moment, Qrow staring at the charcoal-grey marble Hunters standing proud and strong, oblivious of the tension lying on the school and the shoulders of its protectors. Eventually, Glynda sighs, a lifetime of frustration in that one sound.

“Goodness knows we have our differences, Qrow, but Ozpin needs us. Now more than ever.”

Qrow doesn’t have any other reply than a solemn nod. Glynda understands, nods sharply in return, and reconstructs the usual barriers between them, standing bold and resilient as the statues above.

The headmaster joins the two of them beside the fountain, sipping his perennially present coffee, and after another minute of pensive quiet, gestures to the academy with his mug.

“Shall we?”

The three move in unison, each finely attuned to one another after the significant duration they’ve spent together, though Ozpin and Glynda hurriedly take the lead, treading lightly over the flagstones. Qrow follows with leisurely strides behind, attempting to delay the inevitable conference with the general for as long as possible.

He certainly doesn’t need James to remind him of what’s at stake; he is all too aware of how precarious their hard-won peace has become.

Qrow sighs, taking from his pocket a brown leather flask embossed with his personal emblem—a gift from his sister, the only useful thing she’s ever given him—and swallows a generous mouthful, savoring the burn of the cheap liquor as it slides down his throat.

They are running out of time, he fears. The sand in the hourglass is slipping between their fingers, and, eternally the pessimist, hope for the future has never been his strong suit.

He has always left hope to Ozpin.

Qrow increases his speed, catching up to his colleagues waiting for him at Beacon’s doors; the very same doors he had first walked through long ago as a member of Team STRQ, when he was young and starry-eyed and still had some sliver of faith left in him.

 _Yes,_ he thinks, as the heavy doors slam shut behind them. _Ideals and hope are Ozpin’s domain._

Qrow smirks, crimson eyes flashing.

_Death, however, is mine._


	6. Glynda Goodwitch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well friends, we come to it at last: the final chapter of the fic! thank you all so very much for your support these past few weeks. I hope you've enjoyed it as much as I loved writing it; it has been an absolute delight and I am so happy to have had the chance to play in this world for a little while
> 
> this final part occurs sometime during 3x04 "lessons learned" or 3x05 "never miss a beat," but before the proverbial shit hits the fan in 3x06 "fall"
> 
> thank you again for reading, and, as always, I hope you enjoy!  
> \- R <3

**+1.) Ozpin's Alarm Clock**

Brilliant light streams through the open window of the Headmaster’s Suite overlooking the sprawling grounds of the academy, and while the man whose title confers on him the privilege of these rooms is nowhere to be found, its other usual occupant is quite unusually still in bed.

Glynda’s mussed hair glows golden in the sunshine and she breathes deeply in her sleep, blissfully unaware of the hour or the mountainous stack of paperwork already awaiting her perusal in the study she shares with Ozpin downstairs.

Her myriad responsibilities never give her a moment's respite; supervising the complex logistics for the Vytal Festival in addition to the demanding routine of her teaching and administrative duties haul her in every possible direction, and her covert work as a member of Ozpin's inner circle fills the spaces between. With minimal time available for her own use, sleeping in has become a luxury in which she may seldom indulge.

For once nothing seriously pressing requires her attention, and Glynda—in an act of open rebellion against her overly-industrious nature—has allowed herself this morning to recharge.

She's damn well going to enjoy it while she can.

The tassels of their forest green curtains quiver in the breeze, the musical lilt of rustling leaves and birdsong drifting in through the window, and Glynda stretches her legs beneath the covers, clinging to the soft lavender sheets as if so doing will prevent the final remnants of her dream from fading into obscurity.

The details that remain are lovely: a cloudless azure sky just tinged with the coral hues of evening, the melodious warbling of nightingales, and the sweet perfume of her private garden nestled into an isolated corner of Beacon’s vast campus.

Few things have the ability to soothe her troubled heart as the garden does; she obtains immense contentment and solace from tending the plants and gently guiding their growth, each season offering its own distinctive joys, and Glynda seizes every opportunity she can to immerse herself in its tranquil atmosphere and expel the stress from her body, mind, and spirit.

She has not visited her garden in months. She thinks it’s beginning to show.

Glynda yawns, letting go of her beautiful dream, and blindly reaches out a hand to touch the sheets beside her. As expected, they are tucked in and cold, the plum-and-cream quilt folded neatly at the foot of their bed, a weight against her toes, and it’s all she can do to restrain a disappointed sigh. If free mornings for her are scarce, such a thing for Ozpin is virtually nonexistent.

He departs before the break of dawn and returns home long after the velvet dark of night has fallen, and she would badger him more about his increasingly worrying and unhealthy schedule if hers weren’t just as hectic. She is many things, but a hypocrite is not one of them.

Glynda opens one eye to check the time, the hands of the old clock on the bedside table blurry without her spectacles.

The clock is Ozpin’s, an old-fashioned piece of art crafted from silver and gold with a face of clear glass that displays the intricate gears ticking in perpetuity inside. There are no numbers, but four faceted emeralds have been set along the rim to mark where the quarter-hour numerals should be.

He has had it for as long as she’s known him, and Glynda would not be surprised if he’d built it himself when he was very young. She realizes she’s never asked, and makes a mental note to inquire later.

The black filigree hands show that it is still relatively early, and the dazzling sunlight shines off the clock’s crystalline surface directly into her line of sight. Glynda groans, rolling over beneath the cozy sheets and shutting her eyes tight, determined to fall back asleep. The moon will rise round and whole before Glynda Goodwitch will permit something as absurd as a persistent beam of light to ruin her meager hours of weekend relaxation.

Her hand brushes Oz’s side of the bed again, fingers tracing the faint indent in his pillow. She sighs. It’s a shame he couldn’t stay to join her.

Glynda comes as close to pouting as her stern disposition will allow and then rolls over another time, lying on her back, eyes still closed as she tries to take no heed of the world stirring outside her window.

The birds have reprised their chorus and the wind resumes its sporadic whispers in the trees, but now she can hear the muted babbling of students making their way to breakfast in the dining hall as they pass beneath the Headmaster’s Suite. She picks out words here and there, excitement for the next match in the tournament and tittering gossip as well as typical teenage griping about some assignment or other, and she tunes out each voice one by one until everything has been replaced by welcome, wonderful quiet.

She yawns again, inspecting the clock out of the corner of her eye—nigh on eight—and shivers in her thin pajamas, a pair of black leggings with an old, threadbare V-neck the color of flowering irises embroidered with the crest of Beacon and Vale. She settles more securely into the firm mattress as she pulls the sheets up to her chin, nuzzling further into the promise of heat.

Glynda searches her memory and fails to recall the last time she felt so restful.

She is languorous, breath serene and even, cocooned in gratifying warmth, when—just on the verge of sleep—a shrill clangor erupts from the clock and Glynda’s eyes snap open, wide awake. The sudden uproar triggers a release of adrenaline coursing through her veins, and she can feel her pulse increasing, fingers instinctively twitching toward her crop on the nightstand, and a growl equal parts anger and desperation rumbles in the back of her throat.

Their colleagues have always joked that Ozpin may well be made of clockwork; his internal sense of time is consistently faultless, and he needs no alarm to wake in the mornings. The alarm is for Glynda’s use alone, a feature Oz had added to the clock when they’d first moved in together an age ago, and she is absolutely certain that she had disabled it the previous night in anticipation of her extended sleep.

Her eyes narrow bitterly, for there can be only one culprit.

She’s going to kill the bastard.

Glynda gives the clock a withering glare as its jarring trills continue to ricochet off the walls of the bedroom, debating with herself as to whether she will humor him and play his little game.

The alarm subsides for a long, breathless moment before it starts keening again, and Glynda, her marginally pleasant mood deteriorating with every tick of the passing seconds, does not feel poorly at all for what she is about to do.

Between the two of them, it’s not as though the cursed thing will find itself beyond repair.

She picks up the clock and pitches it forcefully toward the opposite end of the room where it shatters against the wall with a satisfying crunch, no longer ringing, except for its echoes in her ears as they readjust to the blessed silence.

_Thank goodness._

Glynda waves a lazy hand in the general direction of the window, and it shuts with a mighty bang, the curtains untying themselves from the bronze finials of their holdbacks to draw closed, plunging the bedroom into darkness. She smirks.

_Your move, Oz._

She stretches her limbs more completely, feeling the frayed hem of her shirt riding up and tickling her torso. Her eyes begin to fall shut, exhaustion returning as the adrenaline fades, but a pinprick of light glitters then through a traitorous crack in the curtains, dust motes dancing merrily in the beam, and illuminates one of the clock’s emeralds on the floor.

A twinge of remorse yanks on her heartstrings as she squints blearily at the broken pieces of the clock strewn across their tartan rug. The tug is adamant, and for a fraction of a second she thinks she may actually submit to sentimental guilt and fix the damn thing, after all.

But then, somehow, the shards feebly begin to shriek again, and the remorse trickles away with the haste of a river tumbling over the edge of a waterfall.

She sits up with a scowl, supporting her weight on her elbow, and rouses her Semblance. The debris glows a rich violet, and after whacking the fragments against the hardwood floor until she is convinced all function has ceased, Glynda sighs gratefully, and collapses back into bed.

She pictures Oz sitting in his office with his endless supply of coffee, innocently waiting for her to come storming from the elevator, magnificent in her fury, to rebuke him.

He’d enjoy it, she knows. It was his plan all along.

Glynda won’t give him that pleasure.

A rare, smug smile blooms slow upon her lips, and she mumbles drowsily into her pillow. “Serves you right.”

Her eyelids flutter as the heavy weight of sleep begins to seep back into her weary brain, and the last vestiges of that superior smile linger in the upturned corners of her mouth as she takes one final glance at the mess littering the floor.

 _The great and terrible headmaster,_ she thinks, _can clean that up himself_.

Glynda leans over to grab their quilt, spreads it over the sheets, and burrows into the covers once more, inhaling the scents of coffee and Dust and an earthy something that she imagines is what their combined Auras must smell like.

It never fails to calm her.

And so, with precious little time remaining, Glynda clears her mind of doubts and curricula and Maidens and clocks, and soon enough succumbs to sleep entirely.

Lulled by warmth and comfort, happy at last, she dreams of her garden in peace.

_\- the end -_


End file.
